


The Matter of the Murderous Scientist

by Deborah Laymon (dejla), dejla



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Reboot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-07
Updated: 2010-12-07
Packaged: 2017-10-13 13:39:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/137981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dejla/pseuds/Deborah%20Laymon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/dejla/pseuds/dejla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Dying Detective, told from another point of view</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Matter of the Murderous Scientist

The Matter of the Murderous Scientist   
,  
with interpolations by Dr. Bathsheba Watson, niece to Dr. John H. Watson

After many urgings by my Uncle Jack, I have taken the step of writing down my peripheral involvement in the incident recorded by him as The Adventure of the Dying Detective.

The true beginning of my involvement, of course, was my engagement to Victor Savage. Seven months previous to Mr. Holmes’ solution of the murder, Victor and I had met over a series of lectures on Asiatic diseases at Saint Bart’s. A month from that first common interest we developed a friendship. Three months later, he proposed marriage. Two months later, he was dead.

I confess my great reservations on the institution of marriage; after all, when one is committed, it is usually to an insane asylum. But my uncle’s marriage to Mary Morstan had softened my views on the subject, and even though I knew I did not love Victor passionately, I still thought that it would be a comfort to have a friend as a husband, especially one who did not despise my work or my lineage. And  — to be quite honest, I found the more intimate portions of courtship not unpleasant. Victor was an intelligent, handsome man who showed delicacy and gentleness where such physical aspects were concerned.

My engagement had been welcomed by Jack and Mary. Even Mr. Holmes unbent enough to attend a family party in honour of the engagement. My grandmother was the only one somewhat disappointed by my engagement to Victor; in an unguarded moment, she told me she had hopes of Mr. Holmes offering for me. Since that day, I hadn’t been able to see him without inward embarrassment.

True, my own reactions to my uncle’s friend still startled me with an intermittent jab of pain and the occasional sleepless night, but these were nothing more than the feelings of an unmarried woman toward a remarkable man. It might have been part of the reason I accepted Victor. Marriage would turn my fantasies away from a man who, although always courteous and interesting, showed no evidence of personal interest in me.

Then, two months into our engagement, Victor died from what appeared to be one of the very Asiatic diseases we had studied, one found among the Chinese labourers in Sumatra. His uncle was barely courteous to me in the matter, but he had been as ill-mannered regarding the engagement, though we had met only twice. On the first occasion, I heard him mention ‘a taint of the tar-brush’ in regard to my ancestry. As I mentioned previously, Victor had been one of the rare men to which my Indian mother made no difference.

It is no joke to be a half-caste in the British Empire.

In regard to his death, it only made matters worse to realize that in some degree, I felt relief that I would be unable to marry Victor. It might have been that touch of relief which made me insist to Jack and Mary, in the afternoon after Victor’s funeral, that there had been distinct peculiarities in Victor’s dying of a disease of which **his** uncle had made a particular study. I must have sounded hysterical. My grandmother went for her smelling salts, which stopped my hysterics and turned them into tears. I remember Mr. Holmes standing on the room’s threshold until that point, at which he whisked himself out of the room.

My aunt and uncle spent some time calming me that day. Jack insisted I take a sedative and rest; Mary sat up with me throughout the night. After that, I kept my guilt to myself.

Before, during, and since, I was in the habit of taking tea with my uncle and aunt once a week, at Mary’s kind invitation. On this particular afternoon, Uncle Jack had been called away to a patient, leaving Mary and I to sit and gossip.

So this afternoon, I put on a brave face and resisted the temptation to bring up the subject. There was no need to be tiresome.

Mary, as I said, was always remarkably sympathetic in  matters of the heart. She poured me tea and offered me my favourite biscuits. We had common ground in literature and poetry. However, she understood fully the merits of promotion in my medical career, as she would have Uncle Jack’s, and often asked me how I was progressing at the East London hospital and the Quaker clinic in the East End which took so much of my time.

“Victor would be so proud of your success in your current position,” she said, and reached across to pat my hand. “I confess I’m delighted! And how thrilled John will be when he comes in. It couldn’t be helped, I dare say — all doctors must respond to patients’ calls.” She pushed the plate of sandwiches towards me. “I have more cress and more of that cheese you like.” Mary frowned at me. “You must eat a little more, Saba. You’ve become quite thin and tired-looking. John’s remarked it. Even Mr. Holmes commented last week you seemed unwell.”

I laughed; I could not help it. “Now that you will never bring me to believe. Mr. Holmes? Notice that? I have faith in his powers of observation, but heavens, where I am concerned?”

Mary shook her head. “My dear, you do **not** have faith in his powers of observation. I said to him that he could astonish me if he liked by telling me what he’d noticed about you. His eyes twinkled  — no, I am not funning you! His sense of humour is not high, but he can be amusing if he’s in the mood. He said, ‘Mrs. Watson, Doctor Bathsheba Watson has decided to continue dressing her hair a la Titus, obtained the services of a superior dressmaker, and appears to need this wonderful meal which you are about to have served to us. Therefore, I conclude that she has been rewarded for her zeal in her profession and has more patients, more duties, rather more income, and quite a bit **less** sleep.’ There, you see?”

“I see only that he noticed I was tired and a little thinner than I had been...”

At this moment, the maid came to the sitting room and announced ‘Mrs. Martha Hudson’.

Mary sprang up. “Why, Mrs. Hudson! What a pleasure  —” She stopped in the midst of the words and her voice changed. “My dear, what **is** the matter?”

“Please, ma’am, is Dr. Watson  — I mean, Doctor John Watson, ma’am  — is he at home?” Mr. Holmes’ landlady wrung her hands. Her hat sat crookedly on her head, and her round face looked pale and drawn.

“He’s out visiting a patient. Is there something with which we can help you?” Mary indicated me as well as herself.

“It’s Mr. Holmes, ma’am, Doctor  — I fear he’s gravely ill.” She dabbed at her reddened eyes.

According to my uncle, Mr. Holmes’ landlady, Mrs. Hudson, possessed incredible depths of patience. At any hour of day or night, any odd person – some odder than others – might turn up in her first-floor flat. Her tenant practised his violin or composed music upon it at bizarre hours, in addition to his occasional revolver target practise upon innocent walls. He experimented with peculiar, odiferous scientific materials. By no means was he an ideal tenant; however, he paid well above the normal rent. I suspect, as well, that such a tenant gave her standing among her friends; and, in addition, she admired and respected him. __

On the occasions when I had seen Mrs. Hudson in Mr. Holmes’ presence, I noticed her deference to him. He was always gentle and courteous to her, as he was to myself or to any other woman he encountered. If ever I had trusted a man other than Victor, it would have been Mr. Holmes. But I had thought I detected some aversion under his courtesy, and it distressed me. Therefore, I spent an occasional afternoon with my Uncle Jack in one of the teashops around hospital, which brightened some of the dullest days. After Mary wed Jack, of course, my routine changed to a visit or two a week to the both of them, with reciprocal visits to myself and my Grandmother Watson. On some of those reciprocal visits, Mr. Holmes accompanied him, and inevitably pleased my grandmother by his exceptional knowledge of music. He spent many  half-an-hour discussing the latest concert and opera performances with her. On some occasions, he slipped tickets to one of the concerts into her workbasket, thereby expanding my circumscribed musical education, since there was always a pair, and my grandmother insisted I attend with her.

He was always energetic. Even in moments of apparent lassitude, he seemed more like a wild creature at rest for a moment. Never ill, that I knew, though possibly Uncle Jack knew better. “Mr. Holmes ill?”

“Worse, ma’am. He’s dying, ma’am, Dr. Watson,” said Martha Hudson. “For three days he has been sinking, and I doubt if he will last the day. He would not let me get a doctor. This morning when I saw his bones sticking out of his face and his great bright eyes looking at me I could stand no more of it. ‘With your leave or without it, Mr. Holmes, I am going for a doctor this very hour,’ said I. ‘Let it be Watson, then,’ said he. True, you aren’t the Dr. Watson he meant, but ma’am, I know your skill. Will you not come to see him? I wouldn’t waste an hour in coming to him,  ma’am, or you may not see him alive.”

“Mary, when Jack comes in…”

“Yes,” she said. “Of course. I’ll send him at once. But you must hurry now. Here is your bag; thank heavens you brought it with you!”

In the grey light of a foggy November day, I whistled for a carriage and insisted that Mrs. Hudson accompany me back to Baker Street. I helped her into the cab, and as we drove back I asked for the details.

“There is little I can tell you, ma’am. He has been working at a case down at Rotherhithe, in an alley near the river, and he has brought this illness back with him. He took to his bed on Wednesday afternoon and has never moved since. For these three days neither food nor drink has passed his lips.”

“And you did not call in a doctor sooner?” Rotherhithe has several seafarers’ missions; between shipbuilding and trading, any number of odd diseases were to be found in its environs.

“He wouldn’t have it, ma’am. You know how he is. I didn’t dare to disobey him, not until today. But he’s not long for this world, as you’ll see for yourself the moment that you set eyes on him. I could bear it no longer.”

Nothing of the usual foulness of a sick room struck me when I entered the apartment itself. The flat smelt of tobacco and smoke but not of what I expected. The door to his bedroom stood open. I tightened my grip on my medical bag and commenced an invasion.

“Mr. Holmes? It is Bathsheba Watson. I have come to see how you are, at Mrs. Hudson’s request.”

He attempted to rise, but failed, and fell back on the heaped pillows. His  emaciated face glowed with fever; his sunken eyes glittered at me from the bed. His thin hands plucked at the covers, his fingers twitching like insectile antennae. He essayed speech, which failed at first to pass his dark-crusted lips, then coughed, and croaked out understandable words.

“Well, Doctor Watson. This is most kind of you. I see you have been at your aunt and uncle’s, and he is out visiting the sick. How have you been since I saw you last?”

I had seen him last a month previous, at Victor’s funeral. The man lay dying, but he could still draw his conclusions and push me away with consummate politeness. “Mr. Holmes, how can you have waited so long!” I set down my bag and took two steps towards him.

“Stand back! Stand right back!” said he. The last time he had spoken to me in such a manner was when Mr. Van Houten blocked our path with a pistol in his hand. “If you approach me, Doctor, I shall order you out of the house.”

“But –” I drew breath, then forced myself to lower my voice. “Holmes, you are extremely ill. Surely you know this. If I am to do anything to affect this illness, I must examine you.”

“Most certainly you must not. You must stay where you are and come no nearer.”

“I can do nothing from here! Why do you insist on such a thing?”

“Because I wish it. Is that not enough?”

It wasn’t, and yet I quailed at his tone. I needed to convince him. “I can hardly help you by standing in your doorway.”

“You will help best by doing as you are told.”

Perhaps if I pretended to submit to his whim, I might be able to talk him around. I fell back on dignity. “Certainly, Mr. Holmes.”

He relaxed. The tension faded from his face. He blinked at me. “You are angry?” he asked, gasping for breath. “You called me Holmes a moment ago.”

Angry? Yes, I was furious. And terrified of how ill he seemed, but these feelings were not something one should admit to a patient. “No, of course I’m not angry.”

“It’s for your own sake, Doctor,” he croaked.

“For **my** sake?”

“I know what is the matter with me. It is a coolie disease from Sumatra  — a thing that the Dutch know more about than we, though they have made little of it up to date. One thing only is certain. It is infallibly deadly, and it is horribly contagious.” His voice rattled, staccato, his long hands twitching and jerking as he motioned me away.  “Contagious by touch, Doctor  — that’s it, by touch. Keep your distance and all will be well.”

“I am a doctor! Contagion would not affect me in the case of a stranger. **You** are my uncle’s closest friend. How can you think that I would care for such a  — a trifle?” I stepped forward, but his glittering eyes darkened with rage.

“It is no trifle to me. If you will stand there I will talk. If you do not you must leave this house.”

My uncle’s deep respect for his friend’s extraordinary qualities had formed to my first impressions of Mr. Holmes. His having saved me from the gallows in the matter of Mrs. Van Houten only added to my own admiration. I deferred to whatever rare requests he had made of me, even when I least understood them. But here  — here I knew my ground.

“Mr. Holmes,” said I, “you are ill. Whether you like it or not, I will examine your symptoms and treat you for them.”

The glitter heated to a glare. “If I am to have a doctor whether I will or not, let me at least have someone in whom I have confidence,” said he.

I heard my hated childhood stammer flood my voice. “Then you have none in me?”

“In your kindness and your bravery, certainly. But facts are facts, Doctor, and, after all, you are only newly licensed, and your limited experience, as you yourself say, is primarily with women and children  —” His face tightened. He spat out the next five words with extraordinary venom, “Neither of which am I. Your qualification are acceptable, but not to treat a pestilence of this kind. It is painful to have to say these things, but you leave me no choice.”

My heart dropped into the soles of my boots. For a few seconds, I pressed my lips together, struggling against weakness. I had suspected that any politeness on his part had been because I was his friend’s niece. Now it lay before me like the pages of a book..

“If you have no confidence in me, sir, I would not intrude my services. Let me bring Sir Jasper Meek or Penrose Fisher, or any of the best men in London. But someone you must have, and that is final. If you think that I am going to stand here and see you die without either helping you myself or bringing anyone else to help you, then you have mistaken me.”

“You mean well,” said the sick man with something between a sob and a groan. “Shall I demonstrate your own ignorance? What do you know, pray, of Tapanuli fever? What do you know of the black Formosa corruption?”

“You know I have studied both. You yourself spoke of the lectures Victor and I attended.”

“Lectures. Words, words, words.” A long breath. “Not knowledge nor experience.” Yet another pain-filled gasp. “There are many problems of disease, many strange pathological possibilities, in the East.” He paused after each sentence to collect his failing strength. “I have learned so much regarding the courses and the treatments of those contagions during some recent researches which have a medico-criminal aspect. It was in the course of those that I contracted this complaint. You can do nothing.”

“Possibly not. But Dr. Ainstree, the greatest living authority upon tropical disease, is now in London. I will not listen further, Holmes, I will go this instant to fetch him.” I turned to the door.

Never have I had such a shock! In an instant, with one great leap, the dying man had intercepted me. The bedroom door slammed shut. I heard the sharp snap of a twisted key. He staggered back to his bed, exhausted and panting after his exertion.

“You won’t take the key from me by force. I’ve got you. Here you are, and here you will stay until I will otherwise. But I’ll humour you.” A gasp of laughter escaped. “You’ve only my own good at heart. I know that very well. You shall have your way, but give me time to get my strength. Not now, Doctor, not now. It’s four o’clock. At six you can go.”

“This is lunacy!” He had me trapped, of course. I would no more wrestle with a sick man than I would wrestle with a child.

“Only two hours. I promise you will go at six. Are you content to wait?”

I threw up my hands. “Have I another choice?”

“None in the world. Thank you, I need no help in arranging the clothes. You will please keep your distance. Now, there is one other condition that I would make. You will seek help, not from the man you mention, but from the one that I choose.”

“Whatever you wish.” As soon as he permitted me to leave, I should go straight to Ainstree.

“The first three sensible words that you have uttered since you entered this room, Saba. You will find some books over there. I am somewhat exhausted; I wonder how a battery feels when it pours electricity into a non-conductor? At six, we resume our conversation.” He turned his head away from me.

I stood for some minutes next to my useless bag, staring at him. The bedclothes shielded his face; he appeared asleep. Then I tried two or three of the books on the shelves – some books, he said. He had as extensive and bizarre a collection of books as I had ever seen, and on the rare times I stopped to speak with my uncle, I had risked the occasional glance.  I had even written down some of the names and searched through used book-shops to find copies.

Now, I could settle to none of them. I picked up one on the uses of common poisons in murder, but a half-page later, put it back in its place. A luridly illustrated cheap newspaper prompted me to thumb through its pages, but it, too, went back onto the pile. Below that was a brown leather-bound volume with the impressive name: Rare Diseases of the Far East Colonies: Their Diagnoses and Treatment. My eyes immediately sought Holmes, who seemed still asleep.

Giving up the thought of reading, I took a turn around the room, examining the pictures of celebrated criminals with which every wall was adorned. In due course, I stopped in front of the mantelpiece. A litter of pipes, tobacco  — pouches, syringes, penknives, revolver  — cartridges, and other debris was scattered over it. In the midst of these was a small black and white ivory box with a sliding lid.

A similar box had come to me by post two days ago, but I was in the middle of writing out my bills, and I had dropped it into the top drawer of my desk, meaning to look at it later. I had not had a chance to return to it. In fact, I had not thought of it until now. This one seemed its exact twin. It was a beautifully carved box, with an elegant yet simple inlaid design, tempting to the sight, suggesting that touch would prove as pleasant. I lifted it from the mantel.

Holmes cried out, a dreadful yell which might have been heard down the street. Gooseflesh prickled on my skin; the small hairs stood on the back of my neck. I swung ’round and his face convulsed, his eyes frantic. I stood paralyzed, with the little box in my hand.

“Put it down! Down, this instant, Saba  — this instant, I say!”

My fingers trembled; I dropped rather than set the box upon the mantelpiece.

His head sank back upon the pillow. His eyes closed, and he inhaled deeply, coughed, then glared at me once more. “I hate to have my things touched. You fidget me beyond endurance. You, a doctor  — you are enough to drive a patient into an asylum. Sit down, woman, and let me have my rest!”

Here was I, a physician, disturbing a gravely-ill man to the point of frenzy. I slipped into a chair and sat with my hands clasped, unable to even look at him. I watched the clock instead, as it ticked off one long minute after another. As the clock began to chime six, his voice struck my ear: feverish, hasty, as shaky as his fingers.

“Now, Saba,” said he. “Have you any change in your pocket?”

“Yes.”

“Any silver?”

“A fair amount.”

“How many half-crowns?”

“I have five.”

“Ah, too few! Too few! How very unfortunate, Doctor! However, such as they are you can put them in your reticule. And all the rest of your money in your left skirt pocket. Thank you. It will balance you so much better like that.”

Utter, raving insanity. He shuddered, and again made a sound between a cough and a sob.

“You will now light the gas, but you will be very careful that not for one instant shall it be more than half on. I implore you to be careful. Thank you, that is excellent. No, you need not draw the blind. Now you will have the kindness to place some letters and papers upon this table within my reach. Thank you. Now some of that litter from the mantelpiece. Excellent, Doctor! There is a sugar-tongs there. Kindly raise that small ivory box with its assistance. Place it here among the papers. Good! You can now go and fetch Mr. Culverton Smith, of 13 Lower Burke Street.”

I gaped. I could hardly do otherwise. Mr. Culverton Smith was Victor’s uncle, the very man who had studied the particular disease of which Victor had died. “Mr. Culverton Smith? I did not know you knew of the man, Holmes!”

“My dear Saba, why should you know? It would hardly have arisen as a subject for conversation.”

“He is my –” Would have been my uncle. No longer. “He was Victor’s uncle. And he is not a medical man, but a planter.”

“I know exactly who he is.” As the words spilled out of him, Holmes gasped for breath, clutching the blankets as each fresh spasm of pain struck. “Once resident of Sumatra, now visiting London. An outbreak of the disease upon his plantation, which was distant from medical aid, caused him to study it himself, with some rather far-reaching consequences. He is a most methodical person, most regular in his habits, and I did not desire you to start before six, because I was well aware that you would not find him in his study. If you could persuade him to come here and give us the benefit of his unique experience of this disease, the investigation of which has been his dearest hobby, I cannot doubt that he could help me.”

The hectic spots on his cheeks glowed. His eyes shone more brightly out of darker hollows, and a cold sweat glimmered upon his brow. His panache and his determination remained, however.

“You will tell him exactly how you have left me,” said he. “You will convey the very impression which is in your own mind  — a dying man  — a dying and delirious man. Indeed, I cannot think why the whole bed of the ocean is not one solid mass of oysters, so prolific the creatures seem. Ah, I am wandering! Strange how the brain leaps from one subject to another completely unconnected! What was I saying?”

“My directions for Mr. Culverton Smith.” I found it hard to swallow. My mouth seemed as dry as if I’d not touched a drop of Mary’s tea.

“Ah, yes, I remember. My life depends upon it. Plead with him. There is no good feeling between us. His nephew, your fiancé – I had suspicions of foul play from your descriptions of your fiancé’s death, as you had, and I allowed him to see my doubts. He has a grudge against me. You will soften him, Saba. You were to be the boy’s wife – surely he will have some consideration for your words.. Beg him, pray him, get him here by any means. He can save me – only he!”

My nails were cutting into my palms. “I will bring him in a cab, if I have to carry him down to it.”

He made an effort to sit upright. “You will do nothing of the sort. You will persuade him to come. And then you will return in front of him. Make any excuse so as not to come with him. You shan’t fail me, Saba. Your uncle never did fail me, and you are as steadfast, as brave as he.” A frown crossed his face. “No doubt there are natural enemies which limit the increase of the creatures. You and I, Watson, we have done our part. Shall the world, then, be overrun by oysters? No, no; horrible!” Then his over-bright eyes snapped back to me. He lifted the key and tossed it to me. “You’ll convey all that is in your mind.” Then his attention wandered again, and he began to muse on oysters, conducting a conversation with my absent uncle.

I took the key with me lest he should lock himself in. Mrs. Hudson was waiting, trembling and weeping, in the passage.

“Doctor?”

“He has sent me to fetch an expect, someone he believes can assist him, Mrs. Hudson. I know it is difficult, but stay outside  — it will only agitate him if you go in. I shall return as quickly as I can. Don’t give up hope.”

 Behind me as I passed from the flat I heard Holmes’s high, thin voice in some delirious chant. Below, as I stood whistling for a cab, a man came on me through the fog.

“How is Mr. Holmes, madam?” he asked.

I had met the gentleman once  — after a moment, I recalled the name.  The very detective who had investigated me in connection with Mrs. Van Houten’s murder: Inspector Morton, of Scotland Yard, dressed in unofficial tweeds.

“He is very ill,” I answered.

Had it not been too fiendish, I could have imagined that the gleam of the fanlight showed exultation in his face.

“I heard some rumour of it,” said he.

Then a cab stopped. To my relief, my uncle stepped from it. “Saba, I have just left Mary  —”

“Don’t dismiss the cab, Uncle  — Mr. Holmes has sent me to fetch a man he swears will be able to help him.”

“He is that ill, then? I had hoped  —”

“You will see for yourself. I must go. You **will** go up to him? Please?”

“Why, of course. Here, I will assist you.” He took my hand, and paused. “Are you sure I should not go instead of you? You look ill  — are you quite certain you are able to do this?”

“I must.” Perhaps my looking ill would persuade Culverton Smith to see me if my words would not. “Go up to Mr. Holmes. He will be better when you are with him.”

“Saba, my dear –”

“I assure you, I am quite well.”

“Very well, then.” He insisted upon helping me into the cab – I am taller than my mother was, but only by an inch or two. I settled myself and gave the address. The cabbie flicked his whip and I left my uncle.

Lower Burke Street proved to be a line of fine houses lying in the vague borderland between Notting Hill and Kensington. The particular one at which my cabman pulled up had an air of smug and demure respectability in its old-fashioned iron railings, its massive folding-door, and its shining brasswork. All was in keeping with a solemn butler who appeared framed in the pink radiance of a tinted electric light behind him.

“Yes, Mr. Culverton Smith is in. Dr. Watson? Very good, madam, I will take up your card.”

Mr. Culverton Smith did not appear to recall my name or my title. Through the half  — open door I heard a high, petulant, penetrating voice.

“Who is this person? What does she want? Dear me, Staples, how often have I said that I am not to be disturbed in my hours of study?”

There came a gentle flow of soothing explanation from the butler.

“Well, I won’t see her, Staples. I can’t have my work interrupted like this. I am not at home. Say so. Tell her to come in the morning if she really must see me.”

Again the gentle murmur.

“Well, well, give her that message. She can come in the morning, or he can stay away. My work must not be hindered.”

I thought of Holmes tossing upon his bed of sickness and counting the minutes, perhaps, until I could bring help to him. It was not a time to stand upon ceremony. His life depended upon my promptness. Before the apologetic butler had delivered his message I had pushed past him and was in the room.

With a shrill cry of anger Mr. Smith rose from a reclining chair beside the fire. I saw the great yellow face, coarse-grained and greasy, the heavy, double-chin wobbling in rage. His sullen, menacing gray eyes glared at me from under tufted and sandy brows. The small velvet smoking-cap poised upon one side of his high bald head emphasized its enormous capacity. The head seemed even more grotesque over his frail, twisted frame – I would have diagnosed rickets in his childhood, or possibly some tubercular bone infection at a slightly older age. His moon-shaped face repulsed me. I expected some diseased odour from him, instead of the scents of sandalwood, chypre, and strong tobacco. He put down the pipe of his hookah, and his thin lips opened, showing teeth the colour of his face.

“What’s this?” he cried in a high, screaming voice. “What is the meaning of this intrusion? Did I not send you word that I would see you to-morrow morning?”

He did not recognize me; I cared nothing for that. “I do apologize for intruding,” said I, “but the matter cannot be delayed. Mr. Sherlock Holmes –”

At those three words, the anger passed in an instant from his face. His eyes narrowed to slits; his nose twitched like a pig’s snout.

“Have you come from Holmes?” he asked.

“I have just left him.”

He frowned at me – possibly he somewhat remembered my face from our single meeting – I had, of course, worn a veil at Victor’s funeral. “Are you his servant?”

Perhaps I should have been more conciliatory, but a dark skin does not define one as a servant, any more than does simple Quaker attire. “I am his doctor.”

He hissed between his yellow teeth. “His doctor? Indeed? Is there something  -- troubling – Mr. Holmes? How is he?”

“He is desperately ill. That is why I have come.”

The man motioned me to a chair, then turned to resume his own. As he did so I caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror over the mantelpiece. I could have sworn that it was set in a malicious and monstrous smile. Fear caught at my throat, choking off my breath  — but he turned to me an instant later with genuine concern upon his features.

“I am sorry to hear this,” said he. “I only know Mr. Holmes through some business dealings which we have had, but I have every respect for his talents and his character. He is an amateur of crime, as I am of disease. For him the villain, for me the microbe. There are my prisons,” he continued, pointing to a row of bottles and jars which stood upon a side table. “Among those gelatine cultivations some of the very worst offenders in the world are now doing time.”

And yet, and yet – his demeanour at the funeral had been as concerned, as apparently sincere. Could there be truth in such a man? “It was on account of your special knowledge that Mr. Holmes desired to see you. He has a high opinion of you and thought that you were the one man in London who could help him.”

The little man started. His jaunty smoking-cap slid to the floor.

“Why?” he asked. “Why should Mr. Holmes think that I could help him in his trouble?”

“Because of your knowledge of Far Eastern diseases.”

“But why should he think that this disease which he has contracted is Eastern?”

“Because, in some professional inquiry, he has been working among Chinese sailors down in the docks.”

Mr. Culverton Smith smiled pleasantly and picked up his smoking-cap.

“Oh, that’s it  — is it?” said he. “I trust the matter is not so grave as you suppose. How long has he been ill?”

“About three days.”

“Is he delirious?”

“Occasionally.”

“Tut, tut! This sounds serious. It would be inhuman not to answer his call.” He tapped one insectile finger against his pendulous lower lip. “I very much resent any interruption to my work, Dr. Watson, but this case is certainly exceptional. I will come with you at once.”

 _Come with me_ – no, Holmes’ instructions had been quite clear. “I have another appointment,” said I. “I put it off in order to convey Mr. Holmes’ request.”

“Very good.” He mouthed those words as if they were some piece of sweet candy. “I shall go alone, then. I have a note of Mr. Holmes’s address. You can rely upon my being there within half an hour at most.”

I stumbled out of the front door to find that the cabbie had waited – I had not been fully confident he would.

“You quite all right, miss?” he said to me.

“I – I am not certain.”

“’Ere, miss, it ain’t the end of the world,” he responded, and got down from the cab to help me step in. “Where d’yer want me to take you now?”

“Baker Street, please.”

“Wunnerful man, that Sherlock ‘olmes,” he observed, then whipped up the horse and took me away.

It was with a sinking heart that I re-entered Holmes’s bedroom. For all that I knew the worst might have happened in my absence. To my enormous relief, he had improved greatly in the interval. His appearance was as ghastly as ever, but all trace of delirium had left him and he spoke in a feeble voice, it is true, but with even more than his usual crispness and lucidity.

“Well, did you see him, Doctor?”

“Yes; he is coming.”

“Admirable, Saba! Admirable! You are the best of messengers.”

My mind seemed to be moving at the speed of oozing mud. I realized that he had addressed me by my Christian name more than once that night. Further proof, perhaps, of how ill he was. I looked about the room. “But where is my uncle? Has he seen you? What does he think of your symptoms?”

“Yes, yes. Do not worry about that. Watson knows I am well-cared-for.”

Could my uncle merely have seen Holmes and departed? Could Holmes have driven him off as he tried to drive me? Not my uncle, who was not the most persuadable of men. I recalled myself to the rest of the business. “Mr. Culverton Smith wished to return with me.”

“That would never do, Doctor. That would be obviously impossible. Did he ask what ailed me?”

“I told him about the Chinese in the East End.”

“Exactly! Well, Doctor, you have done all that a good friend could. You can now disappear from the scene.”

“I cannot. My uncle is not here. I must wait and hear Mr. Culverton Smith’s opinion, Holmes.”

“Of course you must. But I have reasons to suppose that this opinion would be very much more frank and valuable if he imagines that he and I are alone. Just step into the wardrobe and leave the door a little open.”

“Holmes!”

“I fear there is no alternative, Doctor. The room does not lend itself to concealment, which is as well, as it is the less likely to arouse suspicion. But just there, I fancy that it could be done.” Suddenly he sat up, his haggard face taut and intense. “There are the wheels. Quick, Saba, if you trust me! And don’t budge, whatever happens  — whatever happens, do you hear? Don’t speak! Don’t move! Just listen with all your ears.” Then in an instant his sudden access of strength departed, and his masterful, purposeful talk droned away into the low, vague murmurings of a semi-delirious man.

From the hiding-place into which I had been so swiftly hustled I heard the footfalls upon the stair, with the opening and the closing of the bedroom door. Then, to my surprise, there came a long silence, broken only by the heavy breathings and gaspings of the sick man. I could imagine that our visitor was standing by the bedside and looking down at the sufferer. At last that strange hush was broken.

“Holmes!” he cried. “Holmes!” in the insistent tone of one who awakens a sleeper. “Can’t you hear me, Holmes?” There was a rustling, as if he had shaken the sick man roughly by the shoulder.

I clenched my hands, bit my lower lip, and restrained myself from flinging open the bedroom door.

“Is that you, Mr. Smith?” Holmes whispered. “I hardly dared hope that you would come.”

The other laughed.

“I should imagine not,” he said. “And yet, you see, I am here. Coals of fire, Holmes  — coals of fire!”

“It is very good of you  — very noble of you. I appreciate your special knowledge.”

Our visitor sniggered.

“You do. You are, fortunately, the only man in London who does. Do you know what is the matter with you?”

“The same,” said Holmes.

“Ah! You recognize the symptoms?”

“Only too well.”

“Well, I shouldn’t be surprised, Holmes. I shouldn’t be surprised if it were the same. A bad lookout for you if it is. Poor Victor was a dead man on the fourth day  — a strong, hearty young fellow, with such prospects ahead of him. It was certainly, as you said, very surprising that he should have contracted an out  — of  — the  — way Asiatic disease in the heart of London  — a disease, too, of which I had made such a very special study. Singular coincidence, Holmes. Very smart of you to notice it, but rather uncharitable to suggest that it was cause and effect.”

The world reeled. My suspicions, the words I had used to relieve my guilt  — they were true. Culverton Smith had murdered my Victor.

“I knew that you did it.”

“Oh, you did, did you? Well, you couldn’t prove it, anyhow. But what do you think of yourself spreading reports about me like that, and then crawling to me for help the moment you are in trouble? What sort of a game is that  — eh?”

I heard the rasping, laboured breathing of the sick man. “Give me the water!” he gasped.

“You’re precious near your end, my friend, but I don’t want you to go till I have had a word with you. That’s why I give you water. There, don’t slop it about! That’s right. Can you understand what I say?”

Holmes groaned.

“Do what you can for me. Let bygones be bygones,” he whispered. “I’ll put the words out of my head  — I swear I will. Only cure me, and I’ll forget it.”

“Forget what?”

“Well, about Victor Savage’s death. You as good as admitted just now that you had done it. I’ll forget it.”

“You can forget it or remember it, just as you like. I don’t see you in the witness  — box. Quite another shaped box, my good Holmes, I assure you. It matters nothing to me that you should know how my nephew died. It’s not him we are talking about. It’s you.”

“Yes, yes.”

“The woman who came for me  — I’ve forgotten her name  — said that you contracted it down in the East End among the sailors.”

“I could only account for it so.”

“You are proud of your brains, Holmes, are you not? Think yourself smart, don’t you? You came across someone who was smarter this time. Now cast your mind back, Holmes. Can you think of no other way you could have got this thing?”

“I can’t think. My mind is gone. For heaven’s sake help me! “

“Yes, I will help you. I’ll help you to understand just where you are and how you got there. I’d like you to know before you die.”

“Give me something to ease my pain.”

“Painful, is it? Yes, the coolies used to do some squealing towards the end. Takes you as cramp, I fancy.”

“Yes, yes; it is cramp.”

“Well, you can hear what I say, anyhow. Listen now! Can you remember any unusual incident in your life just about the time your symptoms began?”

“No, no; nothing.”

“Think again.”

“I’m too ill to think.”

“Well, then, I’ll help you. Did anything come by post?”

“By post?”

“A box by chance?”

“I’m fainting  — I’m gone!”

“Listen, Holmes!” Blankets and sheet rustled; Holmes groaned as if being shaken. I dug my nails into my palms until the pain jerked me from my rage. “You must hear me. You shall hear me. Do you remember a box  — an ivory box? It came on Wednesday. You opened it  — do you remember?”

“Yes, yes, I opened it. There was a sharp spring inside it. Some joke  —”

The black and ivory box from the mantelpiece? Yes, that must be the one he meant. The ivory box which was a twin to the one I had received – had Culverton Smith sent me the box I had received? And if so, why?

“It was no joke, as you will find to your cost. You fool, you would have it and you have got it. Who asked you to cross my path? If you had left me alone I would not have hurt you.”

“I remember,” Holmes gasped. “The spring! It drew blood. This box  — this on the table.”

“The very one, by George! And it may as well leave the room in my pocket. There goes your last shred of evidence. But you have the truth now, Holmes, and you can die with the knowledge that I killed you. You knew too much of the fate of Victor Savage, so I have sent you to share it along with him and his Hindoo paramour. You are very near your end, Holmes. I will sit here and I will watch you die.”

Holmes’s voice had sunk to an almost inaudible whisper.

“What is that?” said Smith. “Turn up the gas? Ah, the shadows begin to fall, do they? Yes, I will turn it up, that I may see you the better.” He crossed the room and the light suddenly brightened. “Is there any other little service that I can do you, my friend?”

“A match and a cigarette.”

I gasped. He was speaking in his natural voice  — a little weak, perhaps, but the very voice I knew. There was a long pause, and I peeked through the edge of the open door to see Culverton Smith was standing in silent amazement looking down at his companion.

“What’s the meaning of this?” I heard him say at last in a dry, rasping tone.

“The best way of successfully acting a part is to be it,” said Holmes. “I give you my word that for three days I have tasted neither food nor drink until you were good enough to pour me out that glass of water. But it is the tobacco which I find most irksome. Ah, here are some cigarettes.” I heard a match strike. “That is very much better. Halloa! halloa! Do I hear the step of a friend?”

There were footfalls outside, the door opened, and someone entered.

“All is in order and this is your man,” said Holmes.

When he spoke, I recognized it as the voice belonging to the off-duty inspector I had met outside the flat. “I arrest you on the charge of the murder of one Victor Savage,” he concluded.

“And you might add of the attempted murder of one Sherlock Holmes,” remarked my friend with a chuckle. “To save an invalid trouble, Inspector, Mr. Culverton Smith was good enough to give our signal by turning up the gas. By the way, the prisoner has a small box in the right-hand pocket of his coat which it would be as well to remove. Thank you. I would handle it gingerly if I were you. Put it down here. It may play its part in the trial.”

There was a sudden rush and a scuffle, followed by the clash of iron and a cry of pain.

“You’ll only get yourself hurt,” said the inspector. “Stand still, will you?” There was the click of the closing handcuffs.

“A nice trap!” cried the high, snarling voice. “It will bring you into the dock, Holmes, not me. He asked me to come here to cure him. I was sorry for him and I came. Now he will pretend, no doubt, that I have said anything which he may invent which will corroborate his insane suspicions. You can lie as you like, Holmes. My word is always as good as yours.”

“Good heavens!” cried Holmes. “I had totally forgotten him. My dear Watson, I owe you a thousand apologies. To think that I should have overlooked you! Mr. Culverton Smith, may I introduce you to my friend John Watson, who is a physician and well-respected by the police? Oh, and now that I have thought of it  — Watson, please ask Doctor Bathsheba Watson to join us.”

A few seconds later, my uncle opened the wardrobe and offered me his hand.

I stepped out and stared at the man who had murdered my fiancé.

Holmes, in his faecetiously-polite mood, said, “Watson, may I introduce the esteemed Mr. Culverton Smith? Saba, I need not introduce you to Mr. Culverton Smith, since I understand that you were previously acquainted before you met somewhat earlier in the evening.” He had adjusted the covers to allow himself to sit up and lean back against the headboard.

“Yes,” I said. My tongue felt leaden, swollen, almost unable to lift. “We have met. I believe, Mr. Culverton Smith, that you were so kind as to have sent me a similar box to the one you sent Mr. Holmes, though I fail to see why you should have gone to such trouble.”

The inspector started. “Did he now? Well, miss, I hope you didn’t open it either!”

“No,” I said, then shook my head. “I put it in a drawer. I meant to look at it later.”

Holmes, still weak, but equally still imperious, said, “And the wrappings? What did you do with those?”

 _The wrappings  — what had I done with  — Of course_. “Why, I dropped those in below it because I hadn’t looked at the address to see who had sent it, and I expected I should need to write a note.”

“And no other reason precipitated your behaviour? No other peculiarity of the gift?”

There had been something. I frowned, I cast my mind over my actions. “There was a card,” I said at last. “It said ‘a small consolation for your fiancé’s death’. It was in a coarse handwriting. I thought the writing looked familiar, though I can’t tell you why at the moment. I shoved the whole thing into the drawer because I  — couldn’t bear to look at it.” Because I felt such pain and guilt when I saw the card. __

Holmes frowned at me. “Thank heaven you have scruples and feel such emotion. Inspector, perhaps tomorrow morning you will collect the box from Doctor Watson’s rooms in Clapton Square. Have you the cab below? I will follow you when I am dressed, for I may be of some use at the station.”

The inspector dragged the still-protesting Smith from the apartment.

Holmes bowed to me. “Doctor, if you will excuse me…”

“Yes, of course. My apologies.” Fire sprang up my face. I turned to leave, but his voice stopped me.

“Just in the sitting room, if you will. We shall see you shortly.”

I opened my mouth to say something intelligent, but could not find the words for a second. “Perhaps I might inform Mrs. Hudson that your death has been put off to a more convenient date? And perhaps ask her for some coffee and a plate of bread and butter?”

“A splendid idea, if you would be so kind.”

It was a second relief to soothe Martha Hudson’s hysterics, composed of anger, reprieve, and amusement. At last I preceded her to Holmes’ apartment, where I found my uncle and his friend standing in the sitting room.

Holmes held a half-full glass of claret in one hand and a biscuit in the other. He glanced at me, then at Jack. “I never needed it more,” he said, with a gesture of the glass. “However, as you know, my habits are irregular, and such a feat means less to me than to most men. It was very essential that I should impress Mrs. Hudson with the reality of my condition, since she was to convey it to you, and you in turn to him. Saba, your substitution was a happy accident—” He waved the biscuit in the air, then ate it. “Not the least since you provided me with additional evidence against our murderous Mr. Culverton Smith.”

Jack broke into the monologue. “You should apologize for hoodwinking the both of us.”

The precise voice slipped into coaxing. “You won’t be offended, Watson? You both will realize that among your many talents dissimulation finds no place. Had you shared my secret you would never have been able to impress Smith with the urgent necessity of his presence, which was the vital point of the whole scheme. Knowing his vindictive nature, I was perfectly certain that he would come to look upon his handiwork.”

“But your appearance, Holmes  — your ghastly face?”

“Three days of absolute fast does not improve one’s beauty,” Holmes said, both amused and lecturing. “For the rest, there is nothing which a sponge has not been able to cure. With Vaseline upon one’s forehead, belladonna in one’s eyes, rouge over the cheek-bones, and crusts of beeswax round one’s lips, a very satisfying effect can be produced. Malingering is a subject upon which I have sometimes thought of writing a monograph. A little occasional talk about half-crowns, oysters, or any other extraneous subject produces a pleasing effect of delirium.”

Jack asked the question I would not ask. “But why would you not let us near you, since there was in truth no infection?”

“Can you ask, my dear Watson?” Holmes clapped a hand to my uncle’s shoulder, then glanced over at me. “Do you truly imagine that I have no respect for either of your medical talents? Could I fancy that your astute judgment would pass a dying man who, however weak, had no rise of pulse or temperature? At four yards, I could deceive you. If I failed to do so, who would bring my Smith within my grasp? I fear neither of you are convincing liars.”

I glanced at the ivory box, now back on the mantelpiece. Jack followed my gaze, and took a step towards the fireplace.

Holmes put his glass down, then reached over to snatch the box before it could be touched by another.  “I think it better no one else touches this.” He held it to demonstrate his point. “You can just see if you look at it sideways where the sharp spring like a viper’s tooth emerges as you open it. With Saba’s evidence, and Culverton Smith’s admission, another such device murdered poor Savage, who stood between this monster and a reversion.”

I broached the question before I could school my tongue. “A reversion?” When Victor and I agreed to marry, Uncle Jack had insisted on several meetings with lawyers regarding money.

“Victor’s inheritance, which was substantial, was under his uncle’s control until the young man reached the advanced age of thirty-five – or until he married. At that point, Mr. Culverton Smith’s London house, your fiancé’s capital, and at least one of the Sumatran plantations belonging to the estate would have been removed from Smith’s fingers. With a wife to support, Victor would hardly have been in a mood to allow his uncle the income to which he’d become accustomed.”

Now I hit the point of my puzzlement. “But then why send me one of his devices? I am hardly able to marry Victor now.”

“Your inheritance.”

“My what?”

Jack put me into the nearest chair. Holmes poured a glass of claret and handed it to Jack, who handed it to me. I took an unwary swallow and nearly choked at Holmes’ next words.

“You have not yet been advised by the lawyer, I see. I suspect he hoped that your lack of knowledge would place you in less danger. Not, of course, with Smith’s need for concealment of his losses – but you are the sole inheritor of Victor’s estate. It is not so grand an inheritance as it might have been before Smith took control of it, but it is still substantial, and no small amount for our murderer to lose.” He picked up his glass and emptied it.

“My correspondence, however, is, as you know, a varied one, and I am somewhat upon my guard against any packages which reach me. It was clear to me, however, that by pretending that he had really succeeded in his design I might surprise a confession. That pretence I have carried out with the thoroughness of the true artist.” He bowed, but had to catch his balance. My uncle took his elbow. “Thank you, Watson, you must help me on with my coat.”

I put down my glass, having taken only a second drink before deciding that I was already too nonplussed to risk wine after having not eaten for some hours.

“You will accompany us, Saba.”

From Holmes, it was an imperious command, but I chose to treat it as a question. “Very well, if you wish.”

“Your evidence will also be needed this evening.” He picked up his walking stick. “When we have finished at the police-station, I think that something nutritious at Simpson’s would not be out of place.”


End file.
